


Marionette

by a_nonny_moose



Series: Egotober 2017 [30]
Category: Markiplier Egos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-16
Updated: 2018-01-16
Packaged: 2019-03-05 18:08:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13393383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_nonny_moose/pseuds/a_nonny_moose
Summary: Who really has power?





	Marionette

The most important thing for a figment is power.

[[MORE]]

Dark, the oldest, knows this best. His power takes the form of coiling smoke and an iron fist, and without control, it fails. He holds himself stiffly, his own restraint the only thing that keeps the world from collapsing in around him.

That’s how it’s always been, after all, and he’s never seen a reason to change it. 

Until now. 

The night before Halloween found him hunkered in his office, watching his aura flicker around him. Dark frowned, talking himself into, then out of, then back into his own plan. 

It was a moment before he spoke out loud, addressing the smoke. “You and I... have not gotten along.”

His aura pulsed in response, mocking. 

“Nevertheless,” Dark growled, raising an eyebrow with the air of a man swallowing his pride, “you prove formidable. I ask, again, for your assistance.”  


A buzzing like laughing in his ears, the coils drawing back. Dark sighed, watching his fist clench, his arm flex. He was closer to human than ever, and yet, the farthest he’d ever been. His aura had made him this way, once. Maybe again.

“I can offer you little that we don’t already have,” he said, voice full of scorn, and his aura seemed to perk up, curling lovingly around his shoulders. Dark half-heartedly tried to push it away. “Listen,” he scolded.  


His aura curled back, buzzing more like shrieking, and whirled across his office. Dark watched, face brittle, as the smoke clumped itself together to form a familiar outline. 

The dog-- a part of him, and yet so much more-- glared down at him with eyes of amber flame. She _owned_ him, and worse, Dark knew it. 

He watched the dog’s form shift between solid and smoke; her eyes were the only constant, even razor-sharp teeth flickering. She was listening, ears tipped forward. He had her full attention, and for the first time in a long time, that sent a shiver of something like fear down his spine.   


“I will give you,” Dark paused, trying to pretend that his heart wasn’t bursting with the effort of offering himself up to her, silver platter and all.   


She growled, the low ringing that accompanied her every movement spurring a spike of pain between Dark’s temples. Despite everything they’d shared, she was his power, and he was only ever her guide.

“I will give you control,” Dark finally bit out. “Full control, for one evening. In return,” he snapped, seeing the dog lean forward, fur nearly dissipating in excitement, “you will listen to me, or at least, follow my plan.”  


His aura huffed, blinking slowly, teeth still bared. A question drifted in the air: _Why?_

“I have... a plan.” Dark allowed himself a slow smile, casting his eyes down. “To make us more than... this.”  


The dog’s joy was nearly palpable, an undercurrent of restraint. 

“In order for it to work,” Dark said, looking up with a glare, “we must be _partners_ , understand?”  


His aura had already dissolved into smoke again, weighing against the back of his neck, a triumphant cloud over his head. Power, nearly within reach. Power, dragging at the strings of its tired puppet.

* * *

“Bim, it’s the night before Halloween! Where are you going?”  


“I’m resting up,” Bim giggled, leaning over the stair railing. “Tomorrow’s a big day, Will.”  


“Yeah, so?” Wilford put his hands on his hips, looking up at Bim, already halfway to bed. “All the more reason to stay up!”  


“Good night,” Bim sang, disappearing upstairs. Footsteps, then the light slam of his door sealing itself for the night.   


Wilford huffed, still looking up at the stairs. “Kill-joy,” he finally muttered, shuffling back to the studio. 

As the door shut behind him, Wilford looked around. He and Bim had just finished decorating, the studio draped in cobwebs and paper cutouts of spiders. At the Doctor’s insistence, the jack-o-lanterns were confined to the stage, electric lights flickering inside instead of real flame. 

One corner was piled high with the contents of their prop department, several  ideas for Halloween costumes laid out carefully on the table. Wilford picked his way over to them, looking over at the haphazard piles. Bim was nothing if not creative, and it brought a fond smile to his face. 

Wilford scooped up the things that hadn’t been crafted into makeshift costumes yet, making for the prop room. It was a shallow closet, really, and he opened the door with a wink of magenta before dumping everything in. He closed the door on it, unceremoniously stuffing several shirts inside, before turning to the rest of the room with a satisfied smile. 

It was just him and a light pink glow in the studio now, the lights turned down low. Wilford hummed through his teeth as he hung the costumes they’d made onto hangers, and the hangers on a rack. Up-keeping the studio had never really been his job, and was more often something he left to Bim or the Googles. Just now, it was peaceful, him and the rough fabric and the clicking of metal. 

He ran his fingers over the collar of one of the coats, deep in thought. The pink of his magic tinkled around him, chimes lost in the wind, the feeling of falling. Halloween had never been this peaceful, and even so, he felt as if he spoke too soon. Dark had been obsessed with it in the past, finding their powers amplified as October wore on. Each thirty-first that he could remember were filled with Dark’s newest plan to seize power, the black cloud that followed him growing stronger. 

Wilford had never had a cloud follow him, never had to contend with another thing leeching his power. After all, he figured, fingers now tracing the pins on the jacket, he had never chased power. It found him, natural, like a marionettist’s hand on the paddle and strings. Wilford sometimes felt as if he couldn’t reject the power that flowed into him, fuchsia and taffy. 

Never in control, but always tied to power? Wilford could live with that. He straightened the shoulders of the costume he’d been fidgeting with, a brown military uniform that looked as if it had been well-worn, in another lifetime. 

His eyes lingered on it for a moment more, the stain on the shoulder, the tightened belt. 

Wilford shrugged, turning away. A Tide stick to fix the stain, and tomorrow would go just as planned. Power assured, the future assured, he left the past in the darkened studio and locked the door. 

* * *

The Host heard Wilford’s door close, and let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. The others were finally asleep, and his own show could start without any disruptions. 

He put aside the story he’d been writing, carefully tapped out on Braille paper, barely halfway done. He pulled another sheet towards him, tonight’s script. He ran his fingers over the title, smiling to himself.

⠛ ⠕ ⠃ ⠁ ⠉ ⠅ ⠞ ⠕ ⠎ ⠇ ⠑ ⠑ ⠏  


It was fulfilling, to say the least, being able to sit in his own room, with his own makeshift broadcasting setup, and speak to the world. Each word was lined with power, persuasion woven into his sentences. His characters cooperated, and the stories wrote themselves. It was a strange kind of balance, a strange kind of peace at the office, despite being forced to celebrate every holiday with Bim and Wilford’s childlike enthusiasm. 

The Host pulled his microphone close, fingers easily finding his soundboard and screens. He was on autopilot, and a part of him knew that this was how it was meant to be. 

He was only a host to the power, after all. The power, like a parasite, had made a home inside. It had made him this way.

Carefully, the Host flicked at a few switches, hearing the screens around him hum to life. A hand to rub at his bandages-- it had been a long day-- and the sound of static filled the air. It was nearly time.

Words came naturally, drawn out of him like precious blood. More, always more, until it spilled onto the page, and bled into reality. The voice that had made a home inside his head, so many years ago, whispered words coated in silver and gold into his ears. The Host had listened, always listened, until the entire world had made him its center. 

They were all his characters, every living being, whether they knew it or not. At least, that was what the power told him, and that was what he believed. 

A clock, somewhere in the depths of his room, chimed to signal the beginning of a new day. 

One, two, three.

The Host took a breath, the power dragging him forward, a puppet on strings.

Four, five, six.

The last of the switches flipped, and the world holding its breath around him. Waiting. 

Seven, eight, nine.

The parasite spoke, quiet, familiar. _It’s showtime._

Ten, eleven, twelve. Midnight.

“It is autumn, and nature is vanishing. It is autumn, and nature is beautiful. Welcome, listeners, to your favorite daily radio show. I am your Host. Let’s begin, shall we?”

* * *

As the other figments began to drift towards bed, the Googles’ room was a buzz of activity. They hadn’t been enthusiastic about Halloween (and if you asked Red, he would still cross his arms and growl that there was no reason for them to celebrate, anyway), but Google_B had had a last minute-idea.  


“Pass the fiberglass resin, Oliver.”  


“A ‘please’ would be nice,” Oliver whirred, rolling his eyes as he handed over the can and paintbrush. “How is your chest plate coming?”  


“Excellent.” Google_G sat back on his heels, examining his handiwork. “I believe that it will be complete after a coat of paint.”  


Oliver grinned, looking down at his own creation. All fourteen parts were laid out on the floor in front of him, drying, and he mentally assembled the costume again and again. It would be perfect by the morning, and meanwhile, this was an interesting enough pastime. 

A loud _clang_ , and Oliver turned to see Google_B slapping Google_R’s hand away from his own costume, already painted and halfway assembled. 

“I just wanted to--”  


“Do. Not. Touch.” Google_B shot Google_R a mock glare as he went back to adding delicate details onto his costume, a tiny paintbrush in hand.   


Google_R shook his head, turning back to the Velcro he was gluing to the back of his own chest plate. Oliver giggled, watching him concentrate. 

“What?” Google_R squinted at Oliver over the top of his costume, eyes flashing gently.  


“Nothing,” Oliver said, eyes on his own project. “Nothing at all.”

Google_G glanced up as Google_R threw a spare paintbrush towards Oliver, bouncing off the top of his head with a light _clink_. Oliver threw the brush back, laughing, and Google_R abandoned his Velcro entirely to begin an impromptu fight across their office.   


Google_B shuffled his own costume out of harms way before going back to painting, hands mechanically steady. 

Google_G almost laughed, watching the others bicker. They were all the same, really, given their differences by magic, rather than manufacture. Manufacture had never held much weight with them, besides their objectives.

He allowed himself a glance at Google_B, bent intently over his latest project. They hadn’t even planned to celebrate Halloween, fed up with Bim’s insistence that they ‘dress up.’ No, they had objectives to attend to, upgrades to make. 

But Blue had had an idea, and the rest of them fell into line to make this temporary objective into reality. The magic that animated them, that gave them their objectives and power, often pulled them along on strings of razor-sharp wire. It left their motors useless against the pull of something that couldn’t be touched, analyzed, explained. 

Annoying, more often than not. Fulfilling, when it was the four of them working on projects, flicking white paint at each other late into the night. 

The power never stopped at projects, pushing them forward. 

Google_G watched Oliver rub paint into Google_R’s hair, laughing.  


_Answer questions._

Google_B didn’t even look up, hunched over his helmet, hyper-focused.  


_Destroy the world._

Google_G looked down at his own project, makeshift, and felt something bigger than him pull him forward.  


_⚠ Installing software update..._

* * *

It wasn’t until Wilford had gone to bed that Dr. Iplier finished his work for the night, sweating under his mask and scrubs. He made the last few stitches with trembling fingers, the final knot finally tightened. 

With a breath, he stepped back. The surgery lights flicked off, and the house lights glowed to life. He was done, at least for now. He pulled the sheet back over the table-- some things were better left covered, after all-- and made for the sterile doors. 

Outside the surgery, Dr. Iplier sighed, running a hand over his face to dislodge his mask. Halloween was in five minutes, according to his watch, and his magic had never felt weaker. 

The Halloweens that he’d spent with Wilford and Dark, ages ago, now, had always come with a brand-new plan to seize power. The two of them were driven by it, tied helplessly to it, like puppets on strings. Dr. Iplier had shook his head at them, laughing, as he’d patched them up after a plan gone wrong. 

Power didn’t mean the same thing to him. 

To Dark and Wilford, Dr. Iplier figured, settling himself at his desk, power was influence, control, attention. It was all magnified during Halloween, the susceptibility of what Bim termed the ‘spooky season.’ Too well, he remembered Dark’s thunderstorms, Wilford’s cotton-candy hurricanes. Dr. Iplier repressed a shudder, remembering the Author’s Halloween plans. 

The Doctor’s own plans each Halloween had been tame, at best. His power come from helping, from back-alley clinics and half-priced opioids. It moved his hands in surgery, guiding him, and the Doctor let it.

It was ever so slightly different, now that they lived in an office, trying to get by until their next video or project took hold. Dr. Iplier stretched out in his chair, eyeing the papers piled high on his desk. The magic was what got him up in the morning, in a way that coffee couldn’t. It was what pushed him to pore over papers late into the night, even as the clock struck midnight. 

The magic was the same as ever, despite Dark’s pressed suit and controlled leer, Wilford’s top hat, the Host’s bandages, the four Googles. Dr. Iplier rolled his eyes at it too often, but it controlled him just the same, even if he didn’t know it. 

Dr. Iplier started to drop off to sleep, gore-soaked scrubs in the dim light of his office. Aged, and yet unchanged.

* * *

Bim settled into bed just after midnight, watching the lights outside flick off, one by one. Halloween wasn’t even a sleep away-- Halloween was _now_ , and all Bim wanted to do was leap out of bed and run downstairs, wake the others, celebrate before... before what?

It took Bim a moment to realize that his heart wasn’t beating hard, stuttering, because of excitement. He pushed himself upright, back against the wall, pillow against his chest, and tried to stop the tears from coming. 

 _This was supposed to be a happy moment_ , he almost whispered out loud. _His first Halloween._

It still felt, after everything that had happened, as if he was running from something he couldn’t see. The fear of fading, pushing him forward, giving him precious little time to be anything else but _afraid_. Even after finding his powers, even after bringing the rest of them together, there was still something that he couldn’t fight. 

Bim curled into himself, breathing hard. He tried to convince himself that he was safe, that he could rest and still wake up the next morning, warm and in good company. He tried to convince himself that nothing would happen between now and the morning. 

He tried, but  the power, whatever it was, squeezed his heart in icy hands. 

No, he couldn’t rest. He had to do what Will and Dark did, fighting for a leg up at every opportunity. He had to get attention, had to stop himself from fading while he had the chance. 

Bim swung his legs out of bed, suddenly feeling powerful. He’d record for a bit, maybe shoot off a few emails. The magic was working _for_ him, after all, and it was all his to be used. 

Maybe, he figured, padding down the stairs into the studio, socked feet quiet against the carpet, it was by virtue of the fact that he was the ‘new kid,’ the most untouched by other magic. Maybe this was why the power had chosen him.

The studio lights clicked on, the room still and silent. Cobwebs fluttered from overhead, one or two already coming unstuck. Bim saw little of it, making a beeline to the recording booth. Uninvited, but summoned all the same, his aura washed over the floor behind him. 

It was power that made its home in Bim’s heart, stiffening his spine and lighting his eyes aglow. Power, and the belief that he was its master, rather than the other way around. 

* * *

But you and I know that that isn’t the truth. You, yes, _you_ , the reader. We make up the fandom, and its _me and you_  that hold the power, we who have given these characters life.

It’s us who keep them from fading, even when it feels like their creator has abandoned them. 

It’s us who write them, draw them, imagine them into real life, and spur them along on new adventures.

They’re ours, really. We were given an idea, and out of nothing but a silly man in a costume, we _made_  them. We pull their strings. 

Our p̭u̶͚͇͔͇p̡̜̳̝̟


End file.
